


Let Me Die

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: lyrical compositions [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Background Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Beta Read, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:49:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: He's tired of hoping for a 'happily-ever-after' which could never happen.He just wants it all to end.Tick, tock, his time runs out.





	Let Me Die

**Author's Note:**

> Songs: _"Let It Die"_ by Starset ; _"New Rules"_ by Dua Lipa ; _"Sad, Beautiful, Tragic"_ by Taylor Swift
> 
> The lyrics will be placed in this fic sporadically, the order the same as what I've written them up in.

**_let me die_ **

 

_ [ I cut you into pieces, searching for your imperfections. I had plans to make you whole. ] _

He'd been happy—shamelessly, excessively _happy_ —when the clocks had chimed and fallen to the ground.

He'd taken a look at his so-called _’soulmate',_ taking in the utter perfection fate had given him: a man with a sturdy build, finely chiseled features, wind-tousled golden hair and those beautiful blue eyes behind the glasses. And he had been happy.

Until Alfred F. Jones frowned and looked down at him with those blue, blue eyes and spoke:

 _"You're_ my soulmate?"

His tone had been thickly laced with derision, coated with a layer of disgust, dripping with venom. _As if he couldn't believe his misfortune._

He'd cleared his throat, then, as if such an action could help the fact that it had gone dry. Of course. Of _course_ it was going to be like this.

What did he expect?

That a man like _this_ —handsome, confident—was perfect for _him:_ ugly, no-good, socially inept Arthur Kirkland? That this man—Alfred F. Jones, the most popular of the students in New Haven Institute—would find him even the slightest bit attractive?

He could've snorted at his naïvety. _Of course not._

He had heard of all the rumours: that this man, younger though he was as opposed to the Englishman, was the heir to a multi-million American company, the smartest in his batch, and a notorious playboy and heartbreaker, all in one godly package. He was both heaven and hell in his toned five-foot-ten stature.

He was everything Arthur wasn't.

How could he have ever hoped otherwise?

Nothing ever went the way he wanted it to, after all.

Yet he kept his chin up, held his textbooks and file folders for the Student Council meeting close to his torso, his features never betraying his emotional turmoil. Arthur leveled his green-eyed gaze at the American, who stood barely an inch taller than he was.

"Apparently so," he responded curtly. "But of course, I've never been one to pay much heed to such ridiculous notions. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to."

With that, he sidestepped the famous playboy, who stood in all his majestic glory, surrounded by his dumbstruck entourage.

And as he walked on by, Arthur made sure to step on the atrocious 'soulmate clocks' with all the fury of a brokenhearted man.

 

**[ + ]**

_ [ My love, he makes me feel like nobody else, like nobody else. But my love, he doesn't love me, so I tell myself, I tell myself.. ] _

He was happy—with someone else.

Alfred F. Jones gritted his teeth, grinding them furiously against each other as he watched his apparent 'soulmate' talk with that snobby, foul-mouthed boy. The damn Italian was getting on his nerves, sitting much too close to the Briton for comfort.

Kirkland should've known—no, _should_ know how much this was riling him, the awesome hero Alfred F. Jones, right? Right. But it didn't make it any less aggravating.

His eye twitched as the Italian— _Lovino Vargas,_ he amended mentally, adding the damnable boy to his black list for later—leaned in close to a half-smiling Arthur Kirkland, who pulled him in even closer by the lapels of his shirt and kissed him. It wasn't even just a peck—no, this was a full 'we-don't-care-who-sees-as-long-as-we're-doing-this' kind of kiss, with the Briton running his hand through the Italian's hair, a free arm around his waist. Vargas was eating up the attention (or attempting to devour the equally volatile Englishman, who knew), already practically on Kirkland's lap as they continued.

Irritated, the American grabbed his glass of bourbon and drank it all up, slamming it back down onto the counter.

"Jealous, _mon ami?"_ The Frenchwoman had apparently sidled up to his booth, unnoticed until she announced her presence. With a smirk, she gracefully settled in next to him, watching as the couple across the room finally broke apart. "I fear that my dearest brother-in-law is giving you trouble again, isn't he?"

Alfred couldn't stomach the barely-there looks of desire the two were giving each other. He looked away in preference to glaring at the intruder on his solitude.

"I wasn't asking for your opinion, Antoinette," he grumbled, flagging down the poor waiter, who had been on his feet for the majority of the evening. The harried man hurriedly went to the disgruntled American, jotting down his order before being rudely waved off. "And I ain't jealous. _Not in the least."_

She rolled her eyes, observing the way the younger man's eyes darkened in hue as the Briton pulled at his companion's hand, as if urging him to go somewhere more… _private,_ for lack of a better term. Her cat-like smirk widened into a grin as Alfred glared furiously in the pair's direction, as if having had enough.

"I'll be right back." He hissed, before he was out of his seat, winding his way through the drunken crowds as he followed his elusive soulmate and his paramour.

Antoinette Kirkland (neé Bonnefoy) simply smirked, leaning back into the leather seats as she waited for the poor waiter to come back with the American's order.

He wasn't going to be there to drink it up, after all.

**[ + ]**

_ [ And you've got your demons, and, darling, they all look like me. ] _

_"You're mine," he whispered, breath red hot against the bare swath of skin he found at the hollow of the Briton's throat, already reddening from the intensity of his bites. "You're_ mine, _Arthur Ignatius Kirkland. And no one else can have you."_

 _He whimpered, hating him and loving him—and then he was_ there, _so, so close, blue eyes meeting green, calloused hands holding him, wanting him. His lips scored marks against his collarbone, burning traces of him into his very flesh, and he gasped, aching and desperate for more, more,_ more—

_l”Tell me you're mine," Alfred hissed, nipping at his kiss-swollen lips, caressing his trembling sides even as everything fell away and it was only them—alone and covered in the darkness of the American's lavish dorm room._

_Yet another whine tumbled free from his lips, followed by incoherent pleas for mercy as devious hands skimmed down his bare back, blunt fingernails etching trails against his pale skin._

__"Tell me, _Kirkland," he commanded, and his fingers pulled against his sandy blond hair, letting him kiss him as if he were scorching whatever remains of the kisses he'd shared with Lovino earlier in the evening, wiping them clean from his memory and replacing them with memories of_ him, _and him alone. He breathed him in, let out a gasp and a garbled moan of the American's name as he was pulled roughly against him, limbs coiling around each other. He was pressed further, deeper into the mattress, covered wholly by the figure looming over him, caging him in._

 _Those eyes looked into his own, deep and dark, gleaming with unrepressed desire and sheer domination. Alfred let his hand travel down, down, from a rapidly rising and falling chest to a taut abdomen, following the curve of the waist to the jutting flare of the hip, then along the smooth length of the inner thigh—_

"Tell me that you've always been mine."

_He stopped there, tantalizingly close yet so far, and a humiliating whine threatened to bubble forth from the Briton’s lips. Arthur settled for making use of his hands, reaching out to grasp the American’s face to pull him in, whispering his name breathlessly against his lips._

_“Jones, please—“ he gasped, moaning softly as he was rewarded with a teasing stroke, so, so near to his aching member,_ “—please, _I—“_

 _A flash of a mischievous smirk, a fluttering kiss pressed to the side of his neck, quickly followed by a torturous lick and words breathed against the shell of his ear. “Say my name, say that you’re mine, and I’ll give it to you, darlin’._ Say it.”

 _He trembled, fighting the urge to simply give in—for what? For simple pleasure? For this ecstasy that this heartbreaker—this man—this_ soulmate _of his could give him?_

_He looked into those blue, blue eyes—and he had his answer._

__

__

_“Alfred,” he murmured, watching the triumphant, predatory grin upon those wicked lips._

_There was no escape._

“I’m yours.”

_And Arthur wasn't sure if he even wanted to find one._

There was someone lying next to him.

Someone who held him pulled tightly against a hard, muscular chest which breathed evenly and deeply, a sign that this person was still asleep. Someone who was very obviously the cause of the aching soreness in every single centimeter of his body.

He kept himself still, assessing the blossoming bruises and hickeys adorning every few inches of his pale skin—what he could see of it from his awkward position curled up against the American’s body, in any case. They were lying atop the bed sheets, the duvet thrown onto the floor alongside their few and far between articles of clothing. 

He refused to look up at Jones’ sleeping visage, carefully looking for a way to get out of his arms, out the door, and hopefully forget the memories of the previous night.

The latter part of that thought would be extremely difficult, however, as every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel every touch, every kiss, every thrust which drove him over the edge of white oblivion. He winced. _Christ,_ how many times had they had sex in a single night?

 _Thrice,_ his godforsaken memory provided, and if it wasn’t for the fact that doing so might risk waking the still slumbering playboy, Arthur would have cursed his stupidity out loud.

No wonder he was too damn sore, every muscle screaming in agony every time he so much as shifted from his place even slightly. And other than that...

He could see traces of blood on the sheets, which simultaneously made his cheeks burn in mortification and his heart drop down into his stomach.

 _Shit._ He’d given away his virginity without even thinking of it. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, debating his next move. He could attempt to pull away from Jones’ grip, grab his clothes and get dressed, before heading out of there—a lovely thought, but one he was sure wouldn’t follow through. Still, he had to try.

Biting his lower lip so that he wouldn’t make a noise as he shifted, Arthur reached down, grasping the hand which was draped possessively around his waist, pulling it away from his skin. He lifted it, slowly, carefully, before shifting to make some space between them and placing that same hand back down on the mattress. With that done, he sat up, nearly drawing blood from how hard he was biting his lip to keep back a whimper at the pain in his lower back. 

He breathed in, deeply, and held his breath as he moved towards the edge of the bed—

—only to be stopped by a hand grasping at his wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” That voice, still husky with sleep, sent shivers down the Briton’s spine. 

In an instant, he found himself flat on his back upon the sheets, those blue eyes watching him as he attempted to stabilise his rapidly beating heart. Alfred looked at him, an almost dangerous smirk upon his features as he leaned forward, lips hovering over the hollow of his throat.

“Did you think,” he breathed against his skin, following the anxious bob of his Adam’s apple with those sinfully sweet lips, “that you could just leave after all _that?”_

He swallowed thickly, a gasp muted by the insistent press of a devious mouth against his own. Arthur moaned, softly, and the other man took the opportunity as it was, letting his tongue dive into that open mouth, plundering and mapping out every crevice. 

He could feel the weight pressing against him, the alluring caress of hands against his skin, one playing with his nipples, the other tracing patterns against his hip, infuriatingly close to his groin. He felt Alfred smirk against his lips, and that hand wound around his waist, drawing him close to that perfectly muscled body—and—

Arthur tipped his head back, breathing harshly as the American cupped his now rapidly hardening arousal, thumbing the head. 

_“You wanted to leave me,”_ he whispered, and that hand moved down, running its fingertips against his balls, light and teasing. “You wanted to leave even before I woke up, yet now you’re a panting, moaning mess, all because of my touch. Why do you have to deny it, _Arthur?”_

Alfred smirked as the Briton let out a particularly wanton mewl as his finger circled around his entrance, lingering so close, yet so far. “You _want_ me. You want everything I could give you, and so much more than that.” His voice grew low, husky with desire. 

“I want you, too. I want everything—“ he paused, satisfied as Arthur cried out as his finger penetrated those once-virginal walls. “— _everything_ you are, everything you have, and everything you want. You’re _mine,_ Arthur. No one else can have you.”

Panting, those green eyes met with blue, still a poisonous green even through the haze of lustful pleasure. 

“I’m not yours,” he spat, breathing shallowly even as another finger worked its way into his aching entrance. He mustered enough energy to glare at him, though it was half-hearted at best, as he failed to stifle a whimper at the pleasurable burn and stretch of the fingers preparing him.

“I’m not…” he gasped, “one of the many _toys_ at your disposal, _Alfred F. Jones.”_

“You aren’t,” he acquiesced, and those fingers brushed against a particular bundle of nerves, which had him arching his back off the bed with a stifled cry. 

“You’re my soulmate.”

**Author's Note:**

> Confession Time: This is the first fic I’ve written for this pairing which will have explicit sexual themes. Please forgive me if the quality of the writing of said scenes are crappy. 
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoyed this. :D


End file.
